


7 Minutes In Heaven

by unseelieCollapsar



Category: One Piece
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unseelieCollapsar/pseuds/unseelieCollapsar
Summary: The Strawhats insisted on game night, and when Law picked your name, you were more than happy to be locked together for 7 minutes.
Relationships: Trafalgar D. Water Law/Reader
Kudos: 74





	7 Minutes In Heaven

The first minute ticked by between throwaway glances and telltale twitches. His lonely composure cracked with the highs and lows of his thoughts, once wishing for an out, twice hoping you’d touch him first. Had there been room in the closet, he might’ve paced, stepped away then turned back for a promising instant — an instant when his eyes glistened not with bore or fatigue, but yearning.

Instead he had to face you all throughout his internal conflict. Were his cheeks red from his desires or the shame that you could read everything on each crease and fold of his features, intimately close?

The second minute, you traced down the veins of his arm to the tip of his fingers and hooked your pinky with his. Neither of you could tear your eyes away from your joined hands, breaths falling into sync, frightful to make or break this moment. If he moved, would you let go or hold him closer? If you wove your fingers as tightly in his as you craved, would he embrace you or flinch away?

The third minute, spurred on by your friends’ guffawed encouragement, you rose on your toes and Law snaked his arm around your waist. Flush against one another’s chest.

“May I kiss you?” Law held his breath for your answer, eyes seeking even just a hint of hesitation in yours, only to find a defiant persistence.

Raising a tantalising brow, you grinned up at your dumb emotional maze of a crush. “Only if I get to kiss back.”

Perhaps the tension had started to fry his brain. Your retort, despite its dorky, shallow wit, coaxed a delighted grin from him. Cupping your ruddying cheeks, he thumbed soothing circles along your jaw and murmured half an inch above your lips, “Humour me a bit longer.”

A deep inhale. He locked his mouth with yours.

The fourth minute was empirical, experimental. Law had read much more about love and kisses than he’d practiced. At first, his lips pressed against yours with hardly a movement, chapped and chilly and awkwardly immobile. Then his hands tilted you, craned you, reorientated you in harmony with his own shifts. Until he found the angle at which you fit together most comfortably, like rotating a puzzle piece until it slid naturally into place.

Pulling away for a brief breath, he caught you mid respiration, mouth ajar, and couldn’t resist nibbling your lower lip. Scientific curiosity, of course. And when he repeated the action, it had nothing to do with the pleasant mewl he’d stolen from your chest.

If Law had to be honest with himself, which he wouldn’t, he’d admit he was terrified of losing control, of giving into his every whim or impulse. That you could wordlessly and effortlessly make him do things without a thorough plan beforehand didn’t scare him enough for his liking. But he banished that worry for later.

The fifth minute, you combed your fingers through his velvety hair and, tangling them together at the base of his skull, drew him in deeper. Licking along his lip, you dipped your tongue in and out, teasing, inviting, a hot knot of nerves coiling in your chest when Law answered in kind. Mouths half open, shallow pants and moans buzzing throughout the narrow closet, his tongue dripping dark honey. Ravenous, you had to stifle your craving for him, for all his body had to offer. Right now, his mouth would have to suffice.

The sixth minute, a hand slid down your neck, traced an electric trail along your fray-nerved skin before gripping your hip. Emboldened by your content-if-startled cry, Law parted your legs with his knee, shoving and pressing his thigh right to your core. You gasped as your back hit a wooden wall, furniture creaking and shaking. Outside, your crewmates whistled and whooped.

You rocked your hips against his firm muscles, bliss wracking your body as they tensed and flexed under your clit, the friction maddening. Your arms dropped on his shoulders, fingers twitching, moans tearing from your throat, when he rubbed in stronger, harsher circles. The sensitive bud aflame, veins carrying magma to every inch of your body.

It vanished. Law stepped back, and you staggered on limp legs like a calf, bereft and cold.

The seventh minute, Law softened the kiss despite your hungry desperation. He mellowed it out into woolly pecks, warm and light, just a sheen of wetness over his lips reminding you of the aggressive consumption displayed a mere minute ago. With delicate, deft touches, he fixed up your hair and straightened out your dishevelled shirt. Then he grabbed your chin, tilted your head to face each other, ran his thumb over your lip. Gaze alight with affection, something both tender and sick.

“This isn’t over,” you dared not speak above a whisper, your words seeming more like a question or (your ego might never recover) a supplication than a statement. Thankfully, Law wouldn’t hold it against you: how could he, when he mirrored your feelings exactly?

“We can excuse ourselves from their games,” the suggestion alone, said in a complicit undertone, sent a shiver down your spine. “Should we finish this in your room or mine?”


End file.
